"I am a widow--these five years--in all but what the law would require," Marion went on. "I have been alone since then--except my child. He was two years old then; and since then I have lived such a life, Fleda!--"
"Why didn't you come home?"
"Couldn't--the most absolute reason in the world. Think of it!--Come home! It was as much as I could do to stay there!"
Those sympathizing eyes were enough to make her go on.
"I have wanted everything--except trouble. I have done everything--except ask alms. I have learned, Fleda, that death is not the worst form in which distress can come."
Fleda felt stung, and bent down her head to touch her lips to the brow of little Rolf.
"Death would have been a trifle!" said Marion. "I mean,--not that I should have wished to leave Rolf alone in the world; but if I had been left--I mean I would rather wear outside than inside mourning."
Fleda looked up again, and at her.
"O I was so mistaken, Fleda!" she said clasping her hands,--"so mistaken!--in everything;--so disappointed,--in all my hopes. And the loss of my fortune was the cause of it all."
Nay verily! thought Fleda; but she said nothing; she hung her head again; and Marion after a pause went on to question her about an endless string of matters concerning themselves and other people, past doings and present prospects, till little Rolf soothed by the uninteresting soft murmur of voices fairly forgot bread and butter and himself in a sound sleep, his head resting upon Fleda.